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“So whether I understand you or not? I trust that. That tells me everything I need to know.”
He turns to walk away, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. He looks back.
“I’m not just here to bring her out,” I say, voice low and dangerous. “I’m here to make sure they never touch another girl again. And if I die doing it? So be it.”
Brando studies me for a long beat. Then, finally, he gives the smallest shake of his head.
“Somehow, I don’t think Maxine would be too pleased if you die. So try not to get yourself fucking killed.”
We approachthe western perimeter of the compound, low and silent, shadows moving through thick brush and tangled undergrowth. Every leaf crushed beneath our boots feels like a countdown. Every breath is measured. Lethal.
The motion sensors blink out as the power grid dies—cutclean by Norah’s signal interference. The world plunges into darkness, but for us, it's clarity.
Scar’s voice crackles in my ear, low and controlled. A predator before the pounce.
“Team Bravo breaching. Diversion in three… two… one?—”
The night explodes. A wall of fire engulfs the north quadrant, blooming like hell itself cracked open. The blast is violent—sharp enough to rattle the bones in my chest, taste the metal on my tongue. Then comes the gunfire. Then the screams of panic as we descend upon the enemy.
By the time we reach the rear entrance, three guards are already down, their bodies twitching in the dirt. Scar kicks the door in with a grunt, steel screaming as it tears from the hinges. Smoke curls in from the chaos, thick and dark, coiling like a serpent eager to devour.
I move swiftly through the house. Room by room. I clear the space like a weapon finally off its leash. The Pastor’s men rush us, shouting orders, firing wildly. Their bodies drop in pieces, their blood painting the walls.
We descend to the lower level—underground. The air shifts. It’s colder here. Denser. Damp seeps up the walls, curling around my boots, dragging with it the stench of blood, sweat, and fear.
She’s here. I can feel it.
Lucky steps forward, planting the charge against a reinforced door, then mutters, calm and cold, “Three seconds.”
I grip my Glock tighter, knuckles white. My heart pounds—slams in my chest—like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribs, like it’s ahead of me, already in the room beyond that door.
Three seconds until hell opens again. And this time, I’m the one doing the burning.
Three.The hallway trembles. Two.I steady my breath. One.Boom.
The door doesn’t just open—it disintegrates. Shards of steel and fire peel back like ribs cracked open. Smoke pours out, thick and choking. The world tilts. And then they come.
Guards. Four. No—five. Armed. Screaming. They surge from the darkness like a second wave of hell.
I don’t think. I shoot aimlessly at the bastards who thought it was okay to touch what’s mine.
Another man rounds the corner, gun raised—too slow. I put a round through his eye before he finishes his breath. He drops mid-step, brain matter painting the wall behind him in a grotesque halo.
The second man lunges—bigger than the first, built like a battering ram and twice as stupid. Fast, sure. But desperation makes a man sloppy. I duck beneath the wild swing of his fist, the air hissing past my ear as I twist in, close, personal. Too close for comfort. Perfect range for pain.
My elbow crashes into his ribs with a sickening crack, the impact jarring through bone. He stumbles—off-balance, wheezing—and that’s all the opening I need. I grab a fistful of his shirt, slam him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. He grunts. His hand scrambles for his weapon, but mine’s already moving. I draw the blade from my belt and carve it across his throat. Deep. Clean. No hesitation.
The skin splits open like overripe fruit. Hot blood explodes from the wound, drenching my hand in a rush so sudden and violent it feels like standing beneath a burst pipe.
His eyes go wide—shock, terror, the slow, dawning horror of realizing he’s already dead.
He tries to speak. A wet, gurgling sound bubbles in his throat, but nothing comes out except more blood. It drools from his lips, down his chin, painting his chest in streaks of red.
He clutches his neck like he can hold the life in, like he canrewind the moment. But it’s too late. He slides down the wall, legs folding beneath him, twitching like a dying insect.
Concrete soaks up the spill of his final breath, and I don’t look away. I watch him die. I make it count. Because every drop he loses is a message:You don’t touch what’s mine. You don’t fucking breathe near her.
There’s a sudden scream behind me—Lucky’s taking the third man. Scar’s already firing on the fourth. Mason moves past us like a phantom, breaching the hallway ahead. But I don’t move yet. Because the fifth man is still standing. And I want him to watch me wipe the blood off my blade with the shirt of his friend before I drive it through his heart.